


The 73rd Hunger Games

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Dystopia, Established Relationship, Friendship, M/M, POV First Person, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joly and Grantaire are both tributes in the 73rd Hunger Games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The 73rd Hunger Games

**Author's Note:**

> Hunger Games AUs seem quite in vogue right now, or at least were when Catching Fire first came out. I combined two different requests - one for dystopian AU Grantaire & Joly friendship, and one for E/R Hunger Games - into this little thing.
> 
> For added difficulty to myself, I tried to mimic the writing style of the Hunger Games when possible (hence the first-person, present-tense). I also tried to base this on what few details about the 73rd Hunger Games exist.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: the only thing I own are the typos.

The branches creak and I freeze, watching as the dark-haired tribute from District 8 stills over the small fire he was just starting to construct, his fingers inching towards the sword at his right. I hold my breath as he looks up into the branches with blue eyes that scan the overhead canopy carefully. After apparently not seeing me or anything else, his shoulders slump and he looks back down to the fire. “If you’re going to kill me, could you just get it over with? Save us both the suspense?” he asks, conversationally, mildly. “And if you’re not going to kill me, you may as well come down and get warm. I’m certainly not going to kill you right now.”

For a long moment I think about my possibilities, which are limited. The temperature drops quickly in the arena, and even with the Capitol-issued warmsuits and parkas, over half the tributes remaining after the bloodbath froze the first night. Finding no other options, I drop cautiously from the branches above into the snow, barely landing on my feet as I look suspiciously at the other tribute, keeping a firm grip on the long branch in my hand, which I’ve crudely fashioned into a makeshift spear. “You’re not going to kill me?” I ask, my voice rusty with disuse.

He just shrugs unconcernedly. “Seems more trouble than it’s worth now, and would probably just ruin my appetite.” He looks over at me. “You’re from District 6, right?” To my surprise, he holds out his hand to shake. “Grantaire.”

I hesitate for another brief moment before shaking Grantaire’s hand cautiously. “Joly.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Joly,” Grantaire says, turning back to the fire, which is still no more than a pile of unlit sticks. “I don’t suppose you know much of anything about building a fire? I swear I had this figured out during training, but, well, here we are.”

I creep hesitantly forward, still clutching my spear in my hand as I look down at the pile he’s made, which he’s at least been smart enough to shape into a teepee. “Do you have any flint? You need something to make a spark.”

Grantaire looks mournfully at the little pile of twigs. “Sadly, I do not.” He sighs and draws the Capitol-issued parka closer around his shoulders. “Ah, well. Looks like we’ll be spending a cold night out here.” After a short pause, he offers, “You could always just kill me. Take me out of my misery before the cold takes me the way it took everyone else.”

I don’t laugh the way he probably intended me to; I get the feeling that Grantaire is used to making people laugh, and I remember the way he laughed and joked with Caesar during the interviews. Instead, I frown at him. “If I had wanted to kill you, I would have done it already. There’s few enough left as is. There’s only, what, six left?” Just as Grantaire nods and is about to speak, the cannon goes off, indicating another fallen tribute, and I shake my head. “Five left, now.” I look at Grantaire carefully. “An alliance this late in the Games is risky, but I imagine it’s our only option if one of us hopes to get out of here alive.”

A half-smile — well, a half-smirk, more accurately — lifts one corner of Grantaire’s mouth. “And tell me, tribute from District 6, just what hopes do you have of getting out of here alive?”

His cynicism surprises me, since he’s made it this far in the Games, and I think about what I know of him from before the games began. Shrugging, I finally release my grip on the spear, setting it down on the ground, convinced for the moment that Grantaire is not actually going to try to kill me. “Probably about the same hopes that you have of getting back to that blond boy that you volunteered for.”

Grantaire freezes, his smile instantly fading, and there is a long silence as Grantaire just stares at me, his expression unreadable. Then, abruptly, he rocks back on his heels and says, “I thought you were a Morphling.”

“Excuse me?” I say, taken aback by the sudden change in conversation.

Shrugging, Grantaire jabs moodily at his pile of sticks as if it might spontaneously catch fire. “When I saw you in training, you look just like how Morphlings look — drawn, pale, thin, wide eyes. But you…” He glances back at me with narrowed eyes. “You’re far too down to earth and actually, you know,  _with_  reality to be a drug addict.” Pausing, he taps his chin thoughtfully, understanding dawning on his face. “But you  _might_  just be smart enough to  _pretend_  to be a Morphling addict so that you didn’t seem like enough of a threat to be taken out in the bloodbath.”

Part of me wants to deny it, to keep the pretense up, but the larger part is in the smile that curves widely across my face as I shrug nonchalantly. “Well, it’s gotten me this far, hasn’t it?” I shrug again. “In truth, I work with the doctors back in my District, and I’ve seen more than my fair share of Morphling addicts, enough to know how to fake the symptoms.” I flash a smile at him. “You have to admit, it’s a little genius.”

Grantaire laughs, an honest, open laugh that has him throwing his head back as he does so, and for a moment, I realize that such unbridled happiness is normal of most people. I haven’t had much cause to be happy since the Reaping — nor, I imagine, has Grantaire. Finally, Grantaire sits forward, grinning at me. “I don’t believe much in the value of alliances, since the Career tributes seem to win anyway, but I  _like_  you. If I were to have an ally, I would rather it be you.”

As if that decides something unspoken, a small silver parachute makes its way through the trees, and Grantaire and I both look up, surprised. The parachute drifts towards Grantaire and he grabs it, opening the attachment to find a firestarter. He stares at it for a moment before looking up at me, confused. I just shrug. “Either your sponsors or mine seem to approve of this alliance.”

“Well, that settles it,” he mutters, taking the firestarter to the fire, blowing on it carefully to ignite the kindling under the teepee of sticks. Within a few moments, the fire catches and crackles to life, and I scoot closer toward it, holding my hands out to warm them. Grantaire grins at me. “Possibly the best alliance of all time, if I do say so myself.”

I just chuckle and shake my head, the fire seeping through my bones enough to put me in a far more cheerful mood than before. “Please tell me you have food,” I say, thinking of the miserable lunch of dried berries I managed earlier in the day.

Grantaire’s grin widens, and from behind him he pulls a few fresh fish that he clearly caught. “You are in luck, my friend,” he says cheerfully. “I even caught extra, which means you can share.”

The business of roasting the fish is clearly Grantaire’s purview, so I relax for the first time since the Games began, going so far as to recline against the snow-covered ground, though my spear is never far out of reach, just in case. We may be in an alliance, but I know that it could end at any time.

That was the only thing my mentor said I had going for me, a sharp wit and ready mind, the kind that lent itself more to concealment than anything else, and it was my careful skills that had kept me alive thus far. I would never dominate physically and so I must dominate mentally. Grantaire is far more physical, his muscles apparent even under his bulky parka, but he seems a gentle sort, more the kind to spar with friends than beat up strangers. And besides, I saw him volunteer as tribute to save another’s life, and that takes a specific kind of person.

As I eat the fish that Grantaire has prepared, I ask him about that very moment, or, rather, I demand that he tell me things, because I’m curious. “Tell me about him.”

Grantaire swallows his final bite of fish and sets the leaf he was using as a plate aside. “Tell you about who?”

“About the blond you volunteered for.” Once again, Grantaire freezes slightly at the mention, but I barrel on, my curiosity getting the best of me, as it always does. “I saw it on TV. You…you had feelings for him, didn’t you? I’ll never forget it…”

And in all my life, I never would. The female had been called first, a flint-eyed girl with a younger girl who clung to her skirts. É—Ép-something, she had been called. She died in the bloodbath. But after her, a blond boy had been picked, one with a strong jaw and challenging blue eyes that stood out from his almost feminine beauty. I remember thinking that this was a true-born leader, someone who could call legions to him if he was willing, with the way he squared his shoulders and started to step forward without complaint. But then…then Grantaire had volunteered, pushing his way forward to scream it, a look almost unrecognizable on his face.

It had been a look of fear.

Not for himself; I have surmised as such from our brief time together, which meant it could only have been fear for the boy who he volunteered for. Which makes me curious who was worth fighting and dying for to Grantaire.

Grantaire looks down, something flickering across his face, and when he speaks next, it’s careful, as if he doesn’t want to say too much. “You’re right,” he says first, looking up to meet my gaze. “He is someone that I care about greatly. His name is Enjolras, and he’s…and we…We’re dating, I suppose.” He shrugs as if there’s more to it, but this is the easiest way to explain it. I nod slightly, though I also frown a little, and Grantaire scoots forward. “There are many things that I could tell you, but I have to be careful.”

Suddenly, I understand. Whoever this Enjolras is, he’s most likely not a fan of the Capitol, to say the least, and for Grantaire to say anything more would be to risk endangering him who he had already volunteered to die for. “I understand,” I say, quickly, and Grantaire nods in understanding of his own. “He…works for the People.”

I hope this is enough for Grantaire to understand that I know, and that I share his boyfriend’s sympathies. Grantaire looks at me with wide, startled eyes for a moment, then nods, smiling slightly. “Don’t we all,” he says, a little wryly.

We spend the next few hours trading stories all in a sort of code. Grantaire lays out the plans that Enjolras has formed for rebellion, plans that he had wanted to start before the 73rd Hunger Games, but now seemed wouldn’t take root in District 8 until the 74th at least. In turn, I share my own sympathies towards the cause, how if I could, I would join them, that things in District 6 were hard, to say the least, that I had trained with the doctors in hopes of helping people, freeing my fellow citizens from the hold of Morphling. Eventually, Grantaire stretches and looks up at the sky. “We should get some sleep,” he admits reluctantly. “Morning will be here before we know it.”

Settling down to sleep, I’m warmed by the dying fire, and for a moment, I’m thankful for the unexpected friend I’ve made in Grantaire.

Two times during the night we’re woken to the sound of cannons, though whether it’s the cold or other tributes that takes two more of our number away, we neither know nor care. In the morning, Grantaire restarts the fire, his breath fogging in the crisp morning air, and I scrounge for some berries and nuts to supplement our breakfast of leftover fish.

We’ve just finished our meal when Grantaire tenses, automatically throwing an arm across my chest to keep me in place, and without a word he hefts my spear and throws it into the underbrush across the clearing.

The spear sticks out of the final tribute’s neck as he falls forward into the clearing, and Grantaire lowers his arm, his face ashen. Then he turns to me, expression unreadable. “We’re the last two left.”

For a long moment, we just stare at each other, the finality of the moment settling in around us. I’m at a loss of what to do, a large part of me wanting to live, but a possibly larger part wanting to return Grantaire to Enjolras. But then Grantaire takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “You have to do it,” he says firmly. “You have to win this.”

“I…what?” I repeat, blankly, not keeping up with his train of thought.

Grantaire shakes his head, still looking determined. “They’ll need you. The…the People. They’ll need you after this, with everything that is to come.”

I freeze, understanding instantly what Grantaire is referring to, and I shake my head, eyes widening. “They’ll need you, too.  _He’ll_  need you.”

A small, almost wistful smile crosses Grantaire’s face, and he ducks his hand and shrugs. “Nah, he’s never needed me. Not like I’ve needed him. Besides, he and I, we…we came to terms with the possibility of me coming back from this after the Reaping. He knows how I feel about him, and this won’t change that.” He straightens, his expression turning more serious, the walls coming up around his emotions as he tells me, “They will need you. They’ll need a doctor, a healer, someone with your skill. What do I have to offer them that would compete with that?”

There are so many things that I want to say in response to that, so many things I have learned over the past twelve hours about Grantaire, about his humor and his heart and how deeply he loved, and while it may not be a skill, there is  _value_  in that as much as my skills. But all arguments pale in comparison to one, and so I repeat, in the vain hope that it would change Grantaire’s mind this time, “But Enjolras needs you.”

Grantaire flinches slightly at the name, which has gone unspoken since the night before, but still he shakes his head. “No,” he says, his voice clear. “Enjolras needs you. And as much as I love him, I can’t get in the way of that.” Something fierce lights in his eyes, and he adds, “Not when he would be so proud of me for this.”

I want to scream at him, to rage, to tell him that if Enjolras is half the man I think he is, he would want the opposite of this, would want Grantaire to survive and come back to him, but I know that my protests will fall on deaf ears. Instead, I bow my head and swallow hard. “I can’t do this,” I admit. “If you want me to win, I won’t fight you on that, but I will not kill you.”

Wordless, Grantaire bends and picks his sword up off the ground, hesitating for a moment before turning it to offer me the hilt. “You have to,” he says simply.

There are a million things I want to say as my hand closes on the hilt of the sword, but I settle for looking him dead in the eye and telling him simply, “I will tell him how much you loved him. And I will avenge you.”

Grantaire smiles at me, a genuine smile, and nods. “Thank you,” he tells me, and I almost weep at that.

Instead, I tighten my grip on the sword, and I force my eyes to stay open as I swing the blade.

* * *

 

It has taken as much skill as I have to break away from my extensive Capitol Guard during my tour of Panem, but I manage to get away in District 8, just as I planned. I just pray that Grantaire’s information from during the Games holds true, and I can find my way to the meeting place of Les Amis de l’ABC.

The password I give the person lingering in front of the nondescript building seems to hold, and I’m let inside, where I weave my way to the backroom, knocking cautiously on the door before opening it and stepping inside. At my appearance, all motion and discussion in the room stops, and one by one the men and women inside, rebels one and all, stand and stare at me.

Then, from the front of the room, the blond man I had only ever seen on TV steps forward, his blue eyes blazing, and he tells the room loudly, “This man is a friend.”

I blink and swallow as everyone else sits down with little complaint. Enjolras crosses over to me, reaching out to rest a heavy hand against my shoulder. I can tell from the look on his face that there are many things that he wants to say to me, but instead, he squeezes my shoulder before saying in a low voice, “Thank you.”

It barely covers all that is between us, between us and Grantaire, but it’s enough for the moment, and I incline my head before taking the proffered seat next to a bald man who offers me his hand and says, “I’m Bossuet.”

One by one the other people nearby tell me their names, including a pretty woman named Musichetta who I can’t help but blush and smile at. Then, Enjolras stands at the front of the room, and as soon as he starts talking, I understand for a brief moment how Grantaire fell in love with him.

Enjolras giving a speech is one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen, expression fierce, eyes like flame, hair lit like a glowing halo. He is without a doubt the face of the rebellion. He is fierce,a and he is beautiful, and I think about the way Grantaire’s eyes would grow distant when he described him, about the time they spent together. And that’s when I realize that this is not the man Grantaire had died for.

Grantaire had died for the man who had squeezed my shoulder and thanked me in a hoarse voice. Grantaire had died for the man he had described in his memories, the man who was sweet and gentle in addition to being fierce, and who had wanted to give Grantaire — and all the citizens of Panem — a better life. And though Grantaire is no longer here to humanize the man before me, I will keep those memories alive in my heart.

That is the man I would in turn fight and die for.

And I would fight for Grantaire, the bravest man I would ever know, who had died with a smile on his face, so that no one else would need to die the way that he had, so far away from the man that he loved.


End file.
